His father was powerful enough to buy the latest imported clothes, shipped direct from Seattle. No salvaged rags from Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle for his son. Only the best for little Scotty. It was Daddy Malleson’s way of waving his dick in everyone’s face and telling them to suck it up.

So people took the kid’s bullshit, and smiled and said thank you very much. But not Sofia.

She’d pretty much let it slide the first time Scotty had fronted her. She wasn’t at all intimidated when she’d taken her head out of her locker during morning recess to find herself surrounded by Malleson and his posse. Four more pathetic whitey bitch-boys who stood sneering as he loomed over her and said he’d heard she was a good ride.

All that time in the saddle. You know.

He was a great rider too. You know.

He tried to stop her as she moved to push past him, and she made a pointed fist, the trail-hardened knuckle forming a blunt spearhead, which she then drove up into his armpit with the speed of a striking rattler. He yelped as his arm spasmed and white-hot chain lightning ran down into his fingers.

Trudi had taught her that one too.

The next day, though, she’d known it was serious. You didn’t enrage a little boy like Scotty Malleson, and you really didn’t enrage and embarrass him in front of his posse. It meant he had to come back at you. The gossip mills were rolling hard with word on Scotty’s humiliation. It was much worse than the time Amy Place giggled at the size of his so-called ride. As Sofia moved down the purple and grey hallways, towards the school cafeteria, everyone gave her a wide berth. Guilt by association could be a very real problem where the Mallesons were concerned. Nothing happened, though. She spent the day on edge for no good reason.

The bus ride home was equally uneventful. Perhaps he was going to let it slide as well?

When she found him and his crew waiting on the steps outside the apartment block, Sofia realised she’d underestimated him. Scotty sneered as she approached. He was trying to look like the scariest motherfucker in the world, in his Hugo Boss jeans and Lacoste windcheater, and of course his well-dressed boyfriends were backing him up. But he was nothing. The lamest trail bandit she’d ever crossed could have frightened Scott Malleson into wetting his pants, just by saying ‘Boo!’ His eyes flicked nervously away from her own steady gaze, and she could’ve sworn his curled lip quivered just a little when she didn’t even break stride. This would have to be settled today, she knew, one way or the other.